It tastes like Sunday.

Pale faces and sunday breakfasts.

No rush.

Time tastes like strawberries

catching up on the slurped sips,

caramel coated bites.

In moccha cups we soak our

saturday fevers and so much

laziness.

We stare at the pancakes

as soon as

the sun melts down the closed

windows.

I turn into the sugary foam

on your upper

lip.

The days have lived

green and blue and I burst

into noises on the pillows

under the bed.

My head is heavy of all the blackberries

and raspberries

runing down my fingers.

Oxygen and salt.

I could be the foam

on the edge

where I do not belong.

Anymore.